


in a tight spot

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [13]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Curse Breaker Draco Malfoy, Curse Breaker Harry Potter, Enemies With Benefits, Feelings Realization, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are the best Cursebreaker duo working at Bill's company, and they only get better when they figure out how to diffuse the snapping tension that's always existed between them.It's just sex, though. Right?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 34
Kudos: 409





	in a tight spot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Something's Changing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998282) by [milkandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney), [Pauleonotis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pauleonotis/pseuds/Pauleonotis). 



> the october 13 kinktober 2020 prompt is— _voyeurism_.
> 
> make sure you check out the **incredible** art that inspired today's premise along with the kink—lines by [@fictional](https://fictional.tumblr.com/) and colors by [@pauleonotis](https://pauleonotis.tumblr.com/)!

It started, as so many significant moments in their history had, with shouting.

It escalated from whispered disagreements at the site, to snide insults in the work tent as Harry peered over Draco’s shoulder to criticize his schematics of the curse around the main manor gates, to snotty eye-rolls and impatient sighs as Harry crouched to pick at a particularly stubborn snarl at the base of the curse, all the way to a proper row back in their office, papers whirling in a small tornado around them as Draco paced back and forth in front of their desks and Harry leaned back in his chair.

“Oh fuck you, Potter,” Draco had snapped, stopping in front of Harry’s desk and planting his hands on the wood, leaning forward with a snarl. “You couldn’t properly translate old Norse runes if your life _literally_ depended on it; don’t forget I’ve seen your qualifying test scores, did you even _bother_ asking for Scandinavia when Granger did her brain-transfer and allowed you to pass?”

Harry had half-risen and leaned forward too, incensed. “ _Forgive me_ for the _one_ section I didn’t receive top marks on, _Malfoy_ —and as _you’ll_ recall, I beat your score on Stasis and Containment by a frankly embarrassing margin, so I think _my_ decision on what needed to be done to get started was the correct one.”

Draco’s hand had shot forward and pulled harshly on Harry’s collar, cutting it into his neck. “I could just fucking _strangle_ you, Potter; I could replace you with one of those Muggle _blow-up dolls,_ just draw a scar and some ugly specs and charm it to say _Don’t worry, I’ll save you!_ at regular intervals and nobody would notice the difference!”

Harry couldn’t say who had moved first, but suddenly their mouths had crashed together over the desk, not a kiss but a bite, and Draco was wrestling Harry’s shirt off and tripping out of his trousers at the same time, and Harry cleared his desk off and pulled Draco across it, laying him flat on his back as they pulled each other off, panting into each other’s mouths.

After they both came, Draco had primly done up his clothing, waved his wand to set the office back to rights, and strode out without another word.

Bill Weasley had looked at them both with suspicion as they presented their proposal, but Harry was more relaxed in Draco’s presence than he had been since they had been paired up, so he found it hard to care.

It quickly turned into their go-to method of resolving stress—a bit of a shout, some angry sex, and after recovering they’d invariably find their way to some sort of agreement, or middle ground. After the third time, Harry draped their office in Silencing charms—Draco had caught him and redone half the spellwork with a cutting remark, and that triggered yet another round, this time with Harry shoved face-first into the wall, panting _more more more fuck yes Malfoy more_ while Draco knelt behind him and licked and sucked and fucked him with his tongue until Harry came, shouting and banging on the wall.

They don’t talk about it, but they don’t always wait until they’re screaming at each other anymore; sometimes, Harry will tug Draco into whatever shadowy corner is closest and drop to his knees, or Draco will sneak into Harry’s shower cubicle and wank them both as slowly as possible, until the water’s running cold and they’re in danger of having someone sent to look for them.

Harry sometimes thinks that maybe they _should_ talk about it, especially when it graduates further, to Draco showing up in his Floo on Friday nights and pushing him down onto his vast sitting-room couch, or Harry knocking on Draco’s door after _just being in the neighborhood_ (“Of Wiltshire?” Draco had asked wryly) and pulling Draco’s clothes off on the way to his bedroom.

Part of him, though, is afraid to upset the delicate peace they’ve finally reached at work; their close rate has always been the highest in Bill’s company, but they’re solving cases at an almost-unprecedented rate, and they haven’t had to get their windows replaced in ages.

Another part of him doesn’t want to verbalize the hot, aching _need_ that consumes him whenever he so much as looks at Draco these days; doesn’t want to admit to how addicted he is to his partner’s cock, how much he finds himself thinking of their times together and anticipating the next one.

Something’s changing, though, as much as he pretends it’s not. Their encounters are less frenzied; they’re less likely to storm off in an embarrassed strop immediately after, and tend to flow back to discussing their most recent case, or even daily minutia, as they lie wherever they’d landed, hands barely touching.

A few times, they’ve even tentatively planned something in advance (As if Harry doesn’t keep Wednesdays totally free, now, knowing that Draco will appear through his fireplace as if it’s a coincidence at 6:30 on the dot. As if Draco doesn’t do the same on Sunday afternoons.). Draco had broached the idea first, much to Harry’s surprise; he’d diffidently mentioned that he had a dinner engagement on Wednesday (and Harry’s blood had _burned;_ he’s not thinking about it, though) and perhaps Harry would like to _review the case files_ on Friday night instead, Draco could bring takeaway? Harry, stunned and still seething with jealousy over Draco’s dinner plans, had agreed without realizing the significance of it all.

So, Harry doesn’t think anything of showing up at Malfoy Manor on Saturday morning. He knows Draco doesn’t have plans that day; with Pansy out of town and Blaise stuck on a field assignment abroad their usual rowdy Slytherin brunch has been postponed (much to the relief of the restaurant proprietors, Harry assumes), and Draco had very specifically mentioned how he’d be _alone_ and _bored_ all weekend on his way out yesterday.

He knocks and waits, but Draco doesn’t come fetch him; when he tries the door the handle opens at his touch, so he steps through. “Hello?” Harry calls, steps echoing through the foyer as he walks slowly toward the stairs.

The Manor is quiet, quiescent in the early morning light as Harry makes his way up the stairway, with none of the usual barely-heard shuffling from the portraits and magic sliding its way through the walls. Harry’s never been here this early, and he wonders if perhaps he should have called ahead, but no—the Manor wouldn’t have let him in if he wasn’t welcome, even if Draco won’t let him take a look at the wards on the property and the building he knows that much, so either Draco knew he was coming or doesn’t mind him being inside.

He creeps down the hallway on the second floor towards Draco’s bedroom. Draco’s door is half-open, light spilling onto the carpet, and Harry can just barely hear— _something,_ something that sets his teeth on edge and prompts a rush of blood to his cock. Surely Draco isn’t—

Harry freezes in the doorway, and his cock hardens the rest of the way painfully fast.

Draco’s on his bed, alright—but he’s alone, squirming and panting in that big bed all by himself, a toy pressing in and out of his arse, one hand on his cock, the other tugging at his hair. He’s whimpering, eyes squeezed shut, and Harry can catch barely-articulated words every now and then, including one that sounds suspiciously like _Potter_...

Harry’s hand drops and he squeezes himself through his trousers, stumbling forward and grabbing the back of a chair near Draco’s bed, unable to look away.

Something draws Draco’s attention, then, because he opens eyes and meets Harry’s desperate gaze, pupils blow. He moans and throws his head back, speeding the hand on his cock up, and Harry fumbles his trousers off, kicking them away and sitting down in the chair, squeezing his balls as he watches, entranced.

“Enjoying the show, Potter,” Draco gasps out, ending on a high whine as the toy hits something inside him that makes his whole body flush red. 

“Fuck,” is all Harry can come up with, tugging his shirt off and pinching his nipples. He can’t decide on a place to stare—Draco’s arse, or his cock, or his nipples, or his _face,_ with his lips twisted up in a grimace of pleasure and sweat dripping down his forehead, darkening his hair.

For all they’ve done together, Harry’s never just _watched,_ usually far too eager to get his hands on Draco’s body and leave his mark. Even now, he has to bite his lip to keep himself from springing onto the bed and taking over, replacing Draco’s hands with his own and that toy with his cock. 

He forces himself to sit, though, and take his fill, watching Draco’s thighs tremble as the pressure on his prostate ratchets him higher, watching his back arch as he tosses his head, watching his hand smooth over his shaft and squeeze the head, smearing precome from the slit down to ease his strokes.

Draco’s watching him too, he notices; his eyes are slit open, the glittery grey barely visible as he takes in Harry stroking his own prick, Harry’s hardened nipples, the way his feet are curling into the floor.

Harry can feel heat building in his face and the base of his spine under Draco’s regard, and he hisses as his orgasm rushes closer. “Oh my god,” he whines through gritted teeth, squeezing himself almost painfully.

“Fuck,” Draco says, snapping his fingers, which causes the toy to pull out and drop to the bedspread. “Potter, come here. Come _here_.”

Harry scrambles onto the bed and pushes Draco’s hands aside, taking hold of his cock and tugging. “God, look at you,” he murmurs, leaning down to bite Draco’s collarbone. “How long have you been at this? Were you waiting for me?”

Draco props himself up on his elbows, staring down at Harry’s hand flying over his cock. “Oh god, Potter, _fuck_ —yes, I was hoping—nnnn, I was hoping you’d drop in, and—oh _fuck,_ ” he gasps, winding a hand around Harry’s neck.

Harry instinctively props his arm around Draco’s back, holding him up, but it’s a shock to his entire system when Draco grips the back of his neck and pulls him down, kissing next to his nose. “Draco…” he says, eyes wide as he takes in Draco’s closed eyes, his red, open mouth, the flop of hair over his forehead that Draco’s forever pushing out of his eyes when they’re in the field.

Draco opens his eyes and stares at him, pupils blown. “Harry,” he moans in reply, dropping his head back as he arches his back and comes all over Harry’s fist and his own stomach.

“Oh fuck,” Harry breathes, scrambling to his knees and taking himself in hand again. Draco’s gaze on him is intense, and his chest is heaving as he breathes, and all it takes is Draco lifting his hand to trail it down Harry’s chest before he’s coming, too, adding to the mess on Draco’s stomach.

Harry sits back, watching silently as Draco runs a cleaning spell over himself and Banishes the toy, likely to the bathroom for cleaning. He doesn’t know what to say—something has shifted between them, and Harry can no longer put it to the back of his head and pretend it’s not happening, the way his stomach turns when Draco looks at him a certain way.

He’s doing it now, eyes sharp and assessing as he sits up, close enough to Harry that their knees are touching. “So,” he starts, tentatively putting a hand on Harry’s thigh.

“So,” Harry agrees, resting his hand on top of Draco’s and squeezing. “We should probably talk. Draco.”

Draco nods slowly, and his cheeks are burning red. “I think we need to...Harry.”

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/631908331634786304/kinktober-day-13-in-a-tight-spot-a-little-bit-of).


End file.
